


Countdown (Dates & Cities TBA)

by genee



Series: Dates & Cities TBA [3]
Category: Bandom, Popslash
Genre: Dr. K., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-22
Updated: 2008-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Pete says, "I have this friend," and Chris feels his left eyebrow trying to creep up his forehead. Pete has a lot of friends, some of them imaginary, most of them assholes, and Chris is not reassured when Pete says, "He's really cool."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown (Dates & Cities TBA)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/gifts).



Pete says, "I have this friend," and Chris feels his left eyebrow trying to creep up his forehead. Pete has a lot of friends, some of them imaginary, most of them assholes, and Chris is not reassured when Pete says, "He's really cool."

"Does he play golf?" Chris asks, and Pete opens his mouth but no sound comes out, his head tilted to the side. Chris grins. "This friend. Is he you?"

"Dude, no, what is this, middle school?" There's laughter spilling out from between Pete's fingers and a friction burn on his forearm from last night's little slip-and-slide adventure, and like the rest of the tour, Pete seems to have developed some sort of serious aversion to soap. Chris thinks middle school is maybe reaching a little high. Pete says, "Seriously. I have this friend, _Mikey_ , and he's really cool. I'm gonna give him your number."

"Yeah, okay," Chris says, nodding easily. Hardly any of Pete's friends are cool, but still, there's something about the way Pete smirks that makes Chris stop for a second, think. "You know I know who Mikey is, right? I mean, I listen to you when you talk, Pete. It's sort of my job."

"Yeah, but only sort of," Pete says quickly, and Chris tries not to worry about whatever it is Pete thinks he's doing here. "You're not working now, right? We're just talking, like, friends? Like friends talk, and Mikey's not your patient at all. So."

"So?"

Pete jams his hands in his pockets and raises his eyebrows expectantly, his lips turned up at the corners. It's not quite a smile, and it's not quite his I'm-so-innocent look, and Chris really isn't sure what to make of it. Pete says, "Dude, he's Mikey, okay?" and Chris nods again, jumps out of the way of Brendon with a water gun the size of Chris's first car, Pete whooping as the cold water hits him, two other dudes creeping out of the shadows, their fingers pressed to their lips.

Someone yells, "There's a water shortage, assholes," and then, "Fuck you, bitches," and Chris sees a blur of color in his peripheral vision, skin and hair and he ducks back behind the buses, tells himself Mikey probably won't even call.

#

Mikey calls a few nights later, and Chris answers the phone even though he doesn't recognize number. It's not quite half way through another sleepless night, middle of the tour, streetlights sliding by in time with his breathing, in and out, in and out.

Mikey says, "I have my own shrink," and Chris rubs his eyes, tries to remember if there's anyone crashed in the bunks he cares about waking up, if making coffee's worth the risk.

"Good," Chris says, peering out of the back lounge, listening. He thinks Craig said something about crashing with the dudes from Four Day. Most of the time, Chris tries pretty hard not to keep track. "Should I make coffee?"

Mikey says, "Dude, it's coffee," and Chris blinks in the darkness, flips on a light. Lance said the same thing night before last. "Pete said you were cool."

"Middle of the tour," Chris mumbles, and Mikey hums in his ear, thoughtful, maybe. Quiet. Chris thinks about how fast even the good things can go to shit when you're on the road, how easy it is to curl up inside your head, stop seeing the same things everyone else sees, same bus windows, totally different view. Mikey hums again, and Chris knows there's so much more. "What's up, kid?"

#

My Chem's meeting up with the tour for six shows through the Southwest, spinning back off and heading up the West coast after that, and Pete starts a countdown two weeks before they're scheduled to meet-up, "Fourteen days!" and "Ten days 'til Mikey's here!" and "Eight days, Patrick, EIGHT DAYS!" and Chris takes day six off and hits a local golf course, plays thirty-six holes just to save his sanity.

Pete dribbles a soccer ball on his forehead and murmurs, "Four days," as Chris passes him on his way through the venue. Pete falls into step beside him, jogs ahead with ball on the insides of his feet, circles back. "You excited?" he asks, and Chris grins, watches him flick the ball up to his chest, bounce it off his thigh.

"We're all excited, Pete," Patrick says, throwing his arm around Pete's shoulders, pulling him close. "Seriously. We are."

#

Mikey calls with three days left to go, makes Chris promise not to tell Pete they're going to be two days early. It's eight-thirty in the morning and Chris is pushing a wobbly cart through a Target on the outskirts of whatever town they're in, a Starbucks cup clutched in one hand. "So, you're going to be here sometime tomorrow?"

"I don't know about _here_ ," Mikey says, and Chris can hear him smile into the phone. "But I think we'll be wherever you are. Probably."

Chris laughs, turns his cart around and heads back to the toy aisles. "You like puzzles?"

Chris has gotten used to Mikey's voice over the phone, the way he sounds, the way he thinks things through. Mikey's still answering him when he gets to the checkout counter, something about twelfth grade and subway lines and city planning, and Chris nods to the kid at the register, ducks his head a little. "I'll see you soon, Mikeway," he says, and he hears Mikey smile again, can't help smiling, too.

#

Craig says Mikey has an ugly-ass wedding tattoo and a not-quite ex-wife who loves the shit out him even though they aren't together like that anymore. She must, he says, because Craig offered to rework the design for her, and she turned him down flat. Bit his head off for suggesting it, got the work done she came in for somewhere else.

Craig's halfway through an unlikely story involving Kat von D, someone named Andoline, and a few blurry days in Cabo none of them really remembers, when Vicky knocks on the bus door, her voice floating in on the woosh of air as she steps through. "Doc, hey, am I early?"

She is, but it doesn't matter. No one's on time any more, and anyone who still has a working watch at this point in the tour probably just found it somewhere the night before. Chris waves Vicky into his office, grabs coffee for them both.

"Gabe and Mikey go way back," she says, running her fingers over the edges of the backgammon board, and Chris nods, takes a seat. "He's a good guy," she says. "You're a good guy, too."

"Well, thanks," Chris says, and Vicky slides the dark pieces into their starting points as Chris sets up the whites. Vicky rolls high, a five to Chris's three, makes a solid opening move. "What's this about?"

"I don't know," she says, watches Chris move a six and two, rolls as soon as he picks up his dice. "It's just, everyone's worried about Mikey, but I'm worried about you."

Not so worried that she doesn't hit his open piece, but still. Worried. Chris sets down his dice for a minute. "Wait. What?"

"You've got this awesome thing with Lance. And with JC, I'm not, I'm not sure about that, Patrick said? But then when Lance was here, you guys, we could all see it, and Mikey's cool, seriously, but he's so _complicated_. He's not like JC."

Actually, Mikey's _a lot_ like JC, but Chris is pretty sure that's not the point. He's not thrilled about being such a hot topic on the tour's gossip scene, but that's the way it goes. It's tour. Everyone gossips. "Look, Lance and I, we obviously aren't monogamous, but we have rules, and those rules work for us, and I'm not about to break them. There's nothing going on with Mikey that's not totally cool. With all of us."

Vicky bites her cuticles, looks pointedly at the board. Chris rolls his dice and brings his stranded piece in off the bar, covers it up. "Vick, seriously, what's this really about?"

"I think maybe Gabe's worried," she says, pausing as she rolls the dice, makes her next move. Chris waits. Vicky's good at this; she almost always finds the words. When she looks up again she says, "I think he's worried because, our band? We don't have rules like that."

"Do you want to have rules like that?"

Vicky closes her eyes for a minute, chews her lip. "I don't know," she says, "but I think it would be better for us if we did."

And this, this right here, this is maybe the reason Chris took this job. He can help these kids, this band. "It's a good idea," Chris says. "You wanna bring the guys in, talk about it some more?"

#

Chris grabs the lockbox from his space at the venue, it's just his notebook and whatever personal stuff the guys leave behind, a few other little things, and lets the crew take care of the rest. It's a travel night, and Chris checks his phone for service, soft buzz of the parking lot lights, crickets, maybe, gnats.

Lance picks up on the second ring, says, "I hear you have visitors," and Chris laughs out loud, leans up against the side of his bus and laughs and laughs. "C says Patrick says half the tour's freaking out, but no one's taking bets. The hell? I thought we agreed you'd raise these kids right?"

"Fuck," Chris says when he can breathe again. "Fuck, I totally love you."

"Goddamn right you do," Lance says, and Chris keys in the door-code, steps onto the bus. The lights are on and there's a dude slouched on the bench seat in the kitchen, he's tiny and tattooed and Chris knows it's Frank Iero even before he notices the broken yo-yo on the table and small cut above his lip. The girl half asleep on his shoulder smiles softly, and Chris can't remember her name right now, but he smiles just the same.

Lance's voice in his ear is low and warm, promising to fly out next week if it'll help. "Go on," he says. "Give the kids something to talk about now. And then call me, yeah? I promised C details."

Chris slips his phone into his pocket and Frank says, "I'm Frank, and this is Jamia, and you're stuck with us tonight." Frank sticks his hand out, oddly formal, and Chris shakes it, shakes Jamia's, too. "The rest of the guys will be here tomorrow, but tonight it's just us. Mikey's in the back."

Chris knows there's a stupid grin on his face already, and he doesn't even care. Jamia says, "This is the cleanest bus I've ever been on, and I seriously might stay. Just so you know."

"I have a service," Chris says, and she glares at Frank, smacks his arm. "Lance set it up, but I can give you their number if you want? They come almost every time we stop."

Frank says, "Okay, you've totally won me over. We're done vetting you now."

Chris knows they're not, but he smiles anyway. He's not worried. He's been vetted by the best.

Jamia asks, "So, which one of those super clean bunks is ours?" and Frank smiles again, touches her shoulder, her hair. Chris is pretty sure he'll have the cleaning service booked before their bus pulls in to the next stop.

#

Mikey's crashed on the couch in Chris's office, one hand tucked under his cheek, and Chris takes a minute just to look at him now, his skin pale in the faded light, his lips parted, beautiful and strange.

He reaches for Chris without opening his eyes, long fingers and a sleepy smile and Chris doesn't even try to resist. He's out before the bus hits the highway, feels Mikey behind him, warm breath on his skin. "This is my new favorite dream," Mikey whispers, and Chris shifts in his sleep, holds Mikey close.

#

Chris wakes up with the torn edge of notebook paper stuck to his cheek, a scribbled story about a boy who calls his friend whenever he can't sleep and one morning when he wakes up he finds himself asleep in his friend's bed. There's an accompanying drawing in which one of the boys has blue spots and the other has a tail, and no one's getting any sleep at all. Chris suspects Pete. Or Gabe. Or both.

He finds Mikey in the kitchen with Jamia, one of the puzzles Chris picked up the other day open on the table, edge pieces already together on the spill-proof board Pete talked one of the crew guys into building after the second Tragic Puzzle IncidentTM of the tour. Pete, though, is no where to be seen, and Chris hates to admit it, but he's really sort of relieved.

Mikey slides out his chair and right into Chris's space, all elbows and knees and still so easy, leaning up against the counter, sunshine and tinted windows, his fingers on Chris's hip. "I like puzzles."

"I know," Chris says, and Mikey bites his lip, scrunches his eyebrows together. "You told me, remember? Twelfth grade, the subway?"

Mikey laughs then, says, "You're a good listener, you know that? Also, seriously, Lance hooked up an on-tour cleaning service? Dude, that's so cool."

There's fresh coffee brewing and three kinds of cereal on the counter, and Craig and Frank have their heads bent together by the windows. Craig's sketching something and Frank's nodding, pointing at a bare spot on the back of his shoulder, but Chris can feel him watching them anyway, Jamia, too.

Chris runs his thumb over Mikey's bottom lip, and Mikey makes the sweetest sound, leans in close. "I'm gonna kiss you now," Chris says, and behind them Jamia breathes, _fucking finally, Jesus_ , and Frank giggles, and it almost feels like home.

 

 

\-- End --


End file.
